In 2007, I spent nearly a full year working with the Securities and Exchange Commission. This was after my indictment, but before my sentencing. I wasn’t trying to cut corners or play games. I was trying to clean up what I could. I sat with them to walk through exactly how the fraud happened at UBS, how I failed, and how the ruse unfolded in plain sight.
That year changed the government’s perspective. The SEC told the Department of Justice that UBS wasn’t a victim. They had recovered their money. In their view, they shouldn’t come back after me for restitution. And they never did.
That should have mattered more. In fact, it did help. The absence of financial loss—the fact that every investor was made whole—didn’t erase the damage, but it did shift how the government viewed my case. No investor loss meant I didn’t owe $8.5 million in restitution. That’s a major difference.
Still, it wasn’t enough to keep me out of prison.
In my sentencing memorandum, my lawyer leaned on that SEC cooperation. The government acknowledged my help. The facts supported it. And yes, they even floated the argument that maybe I didn’t need prison. Maybe probation would suffice.
But Judge Stephen Wilson didn’t see it that way.
In February 2008, during my sentencing hearing in downtown Los Angeles, Judge Wilson spoke plainly. He looked right at me and said:
“You had every privilege and opportunity that most people in this courtroom do not have. Every reason to know right from wrong. I’m tired of salesmen turning the other way for money. Most don’t get caught. You did. I’m going to make an example out of you.”
Then he sentenced me to 18 months in federal prison.
Cooperation Is Not a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free Card
I’ve met too many defendants who believe that cooperation alone will save them from prison. They believe that helping the government—whether it’s the FBI, the SEC, or another agency—is the golden ticket to leniency.
That’s a mistake.
Cooperation matters. But it’s not enough by itself. Judges don’t just weigh how helpful you’ve been to the government. They weigh who you are. What you did. What kind of life you led before the crime. What you’ve done to make amends—not just legally, but personally.
Judge Wilson wasn’t punishing me for failing to help the SEC. He was punishing me for being someone who knew better and did the wrong thing anyway. And he wanted the sentence to send a message—not just to me, but to others who might think they can sidestep responsibility with a little post-indictment cooperation.
What the Judge Sees
Judges don’t get swayed by paperwork alone. They see a full courtroom. They see your lawyer’s memo. They read the probation officer’s report. They hear what the prosecutors say. But they’re also reading between the lines.
They ask:
- Did this person take responsibility early, or did they delay it?
- Are they trying to protect others or just themselves?
- Are they focused on victims, or only on their sentence?
- Have they built a record of effort and self-reflection, or are they showing up at sentencing hoping for leniency based on one or two acts?
The only way to influence how a judge answers those questions is to do the work—over time—and to document it. Not with buzzwords. Not with vague apologies. With receipts. With letters. With a daily record that proves effort, remorse, and an honest understanding of what went wrong.
What I Should Have Done Differently
I cooperated. That helped.
What I didn’t do was enough of the hard, visible work in the months before sentencing to reshape how Judge Wilson viewed me. I didn’t give him a full picture of a man who had learned, who had owned it all, who had built a new routine, who had stopped making excuses.
All he saw was someone who got caught and cooperated. And he made clear—that wasn’t enough.
One Year Made a Difference. But Not Enough.
That year working with the SEC did change my case. I didn’t owe restitution. UBS never came after me. The government recognized my help.
But when it mattered most—in that courtroom, facing a federal judge—my sentence was still 18 months. Because cooperation alone doesn’t convince a judge you’ve changed. You have to do more. And you have to show it in a way that is credible, measurable, and sustained.
Ask Yourself This:
If your judge had to decide your sentence tomorrow, based only on what they’ve seen from you so far—would they believe you’ve changed?
If the answer is no—or if you’re not sure—there’s still time to fix that.
Join our free webinar every Tuesday at 11am PST / 2pm EST. Or, if you want to speak one-on-one, schedule a personal call. You don’t need a speech. You need to show—not just say—why you deserve leniency.
